


Red and green

by TheSingerThatYouWanted (orphan_account)



Category: IT Crowd
Genre: Basically I'm convinced that there is a version of Julian behind the green door, Fluff, M/M, Slightly AU?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheSingerThatYouWanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You remember the green door that must absolutely never be opened? This is what I think is behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and green

**Author's Note:**

> I live in the firm belief that every Noel must have his Julian, so here's my interpretation of how that could play into the IT Crowd. Hope you enjoy.

“…no good at all!” concluded Richmond with a flourish, turning dramatically to face the empty space where his colleagues had been standing just a second before. The familiar feeling of disappointment washed over him again, swirling in the pit of his stomach, so close to second nature that he almost didn’t notice it. He sighed.  
“Well that’s just bloody rude.”  
Looking around the empty office properly for the first time in weeks, he walked slowly forward and peered around. It wasn’t often he was given free rein in the office, and despite his concerns he’d actually almost been looking forward to having some time to himself. With nobody else around he was free to sit on the old sofa instead of in his room, and just the thought of that had sent him to sleep with a smile on his face the night before. Of course, the plan had rather been derailed by the loss of his magazine.  
To be fair, though, it wasn’t like he was short of things to do. The whole room was a distraction, peppered with odds and ends and various collectibles that its inhabitants had accumulated over time. Richmond sat down cautiously at Roy’s desk, looking around for a moment before smiling to himself and picking up a couple of small figurines. He vaguely recognised them as being from some comic book series that was being made into a movie, and wondered if Roy would notice if he persuaded Sergeant America and Iron Guy into a relationship. Probably, he decided, abandoning the idea and moving on to the hundreds of pens in various states of disrepair that littered Roy’s desk. How one man could get through so many biros was beyond him. Richmond dragged one slowly across the back of an envelope, enjoying the way the ink blurring over the paper created an odd, almost otherworldly shadow behind his figures, and started to draw.  
Half an hour passed as the world under his fingers began slowly to take shape, heroes and monsters half-concealed behind swirling fog. As he worked Richmond sang under his breath, humming old Cradle of Filth songs and film scores to pass the time. Blue-black ink, slightly sticky, covered his fingertips and traced a faint, smudged path along his jawline from where he’d reached up to push his hair out of his eyes. A few quick strokes on the page became a dragon, the drag of his thumb the billowing smoke coming from its mouth. Richmond smiled as he quickly sketched in a challenger, a knight in battered armour with a ribbon trailing from his wrist. Quick marks made by his little finger were enough to show the dents in the helmet and breastplate, scars from battles long past, worn proudly now. All that he needed to add was someone for his knight to rescue, to protect, but there wasn’t enough room on the envelope. He contented himself with doodling a few stray gold coins by the dragon’s clawed feet, dragged from its hoard. As he finished up Richmond wondered absently if dragons were affected by the economy. Discount hoards, for the beast on a budget. Or something.  
Reluctantly he stood and folded the drawing into his pocket, continuing his circuit of the office. Moss always had something interesting on his desk, and today was no exception. Tucked away under a small heap of papers and comics was the homemade stress machine he’d heard them making so much fuss about. He picked it up and tried to remember what Moss had said after he’d first built it.  
“I’m going to ask myself a very personal question,” he said carefully, and watched as the needle twitched ever-so-slightly away from apathy.  
“Don’t worry,” he said after a few seconds. “I’m not actually going to ask myself a question.”  
The needle settled back a few degrees to where it had started, and Richmond shrugged.  
“Don’t see what all the fuss was about,” he muttered, putting everything back exactly as he’d found it. Moss got twitchy if his things were disturbed. After replacing the machine he poked around the shelves for a while, still hoping that his copy of Heat would somehow turn up. He didn’t understand where it could have gone- after all, it’s not like Moss or Roy would go near it. Cautiously he turned to look over his shoulder at the open door to Jen’s office, staring for a moment before a shiver ran down his spine and he shook his head. Some risks just weren’t worth taking.  
Finally abandoning all hope of seeing his magazine again Richmond wandered over to the fridge, grabbing a can of Cuke from inside and sitting down heavily on the sofa. He considered watching television, but one of Roy’s games was plugged in and he didn’t want to risk attempting to disconnect it. Last time he’d tried that he’d burned his fingers and plunged floor seven into darkness. By the time the lights came back on ten minutes later six hundred pounds worth of computers had mysteriously vanished and four people were pregnant. It wasn’t something anyone was in a hurry to relive, except possibly for Steve from fourth who, according to office rumours, was now the father to two beautiful daughters and three sons (Sharon had twins).  
Staring around the room for an alternative, Richmond’s gaze eventually settled on the green door in the opposite wall. He’d never paid it much attention before, mostly because when he was timing his runs for extra tea and old newspapers to coincide with phone calls and toilet visits he didn’t really have the seconds to spare wondering about what could be going on in the other room. At least, he assumed it was a room. Now he thought about it the door could easily lead to a cupboard, or to a blank wall, or possibly an alternate dimension. The carvings in the centre seemed to suggest some kind of woodland landscape, like an abandoned castle in a forest. Either that or it was a portal to hell.  
For a few minutes Richmond just sat there, staring, until eventually his curiosity got the better of him and he stood up. If it all went completely wrong, he reasoned, at least he knew for a fact that since the great Ouija board panic of ’03 Reynholm Industries was insured against demonic attacks of any kind. With this in mind he bit his lip, glanced quickly over his shoulder in case anyone had decided to come back early, and reached slowly for the door handle.  
It opened more slowly than he’d expected, the wood surprisingly heavy and slightly warped with age and disuse. An ominous creak dragged along in its wake, filling the office with a sound that would have made the most hardened serial killer shiver. Richmond was impressed at how textbook creepy it all was. He’d had to study for months to get anywhere even approaching that level. As he stepped closer a wave of hot, humid air billowed out of the room, making him blink and cough. Maybe it really was a jungle, he thought, and he looked closer to see a slightly bewildered face peering back at him.  
An undignified gasp of surprise tore from his throat as he stepped backwards, stumbling as his foot caught on an old cable. Richmond fell to the floor in a clumsy tangle of limbs, dimly aware of a smashing sound and someone wearing a concerned expression and a crumpled tweed jacket looking down at him.  
He blinked. The universe twisted.  
A short eternity later, Richmond thought- ‘my head hurts.’ A few seconds later, when this thought had filtered through his consciousness, he followed it up with a few more. ‘Everything is too warm. This isn’t my room. And I’m sitting up, and I don’t remember getting here.’ These, too, were duly processed, and when he was finished he tried experimentally sending a command to his muscles. Something simple.  
Richmond opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his room, or the office. He didn’t recognise his surroundings at all- grass was growing from cracks in the concrete floor, and high above his head a window let in a soggy, watered-down version of daylight. Copper pipes snaked up the walls in a delicate grid, occasionally letting out a soft, threatening hiss of steam. It was like someone from the Victorian era had accidentally built their house in the middle of a rainforest, an impression which was reinforced by the realisation that he was sitting in a leather armchair. Richmond frowned, running his hands over the armrests just to make sure they were real. They certainly felt solid.  
“Where am I?” he said out loud. His gaze fell on the green door, almost camouflaged against the moss-covered walls, and realisation slowly dawned. He tried to stand up and make his way back outside, but then a shadow detached itself from the wall by the door and hurried forward. As it approached it resolved itself into the figure of a tall man with curly brown hair and dark eyes. The stranger looked concerned, a soft frown creasing his forehead as he looked down at Richmond. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he spoke, his voice deep and smooth even if the words were hesitant.  
“No, don’t- uh- don’t try to get up. You’ll be alright, I won’t hurt you, it’s just you- well- do you remember?”  
Richmond shook his head uneasily, wincing as the movement sent a stab of pain through him.  
“What is this place?” he asked. “Why does my head feel like it’s been stepped on by a giant cat?”  
The stranger smiled a little at that, though he still looked worried. As he explained he sat down carefully on the edge of an old-fashioned wooden desk that had been pushed against one wall.  
“You’re in the green room,” he explained. “I don’t, um, get that many visitors. Any visitors, really. You came in, and I don’t think you were expecting anyone to be here? Anyway, you sort of tripped and hit your head so I thought I’d best bring you in here and see if you were alright.”  
He tilted his head slightly and stared intently at Richmond.  
“Are you alright?” he asked, and there was a softness to his tone that made Richmond relax. He nodded slowly.  
“I think I am.”  
Relief flooded the stranger’s face, his eyes clearing slightly and a smile spreading across his cheeks.  
“Good.”  
Richmond tried offering him a hesitant smile in response before looking quickly around again.  
“Not to be rude, but can we take this conversation outside?” he asked. “I’m not exactly used to this temperature.”  
The stranger looked doubtfully at him.  
“Are we allowed out there?”  
“I think so. Nobody else is there, anyway. They all went out to the theatre.”  
“Oh. Okay then.”  
The tall man pushed the door open almost effortlessly, the ominous creak sounding much less impressive when sped up, and stepped to one side to let Richmond follow. The office felt pleasantly cool in comparison to the oppressive warmth of the green room, and Richmond took a deep breath of air. The stranger smiled at him.  
“I’m Giles, by the way,” he added, as though introductions were merely an afterthought, and held out a hand to Richmond. He shook it cautiously.  
“Richmond Avenal.”  
“It’s good to meet you, Richmond. Like I said, it’s, uh, been a while since I had company.”  
Richmond laughed quietly.  
“I know the feeling.”  
He sat down on the sofa and nodded for Giles to come and join him. Now they were out in the light he could see the taller man more clearly. He had medium-length brown hair that tumbled out from his head in unruly curls, presumably from the humidity in the green room, and stubble across his chin and cheeks. Overall he gave off the impression of a slightly absent-minded teacher or scientist, one who was likely to forget to sleep for three days because they were trying to figure out if cows understand the concept of communism.  
“Do you work here?” he asked, and Richmond nodded.  
“Well, sort of,” he clarified. “I get paid to sit over in the other room and watch the little red lights on the computers. I don’t know if that counts as work, though, I think they’ve just forgotten about me.”  
Giles looked bewildered.  
“Computers? What department is this?”  
Richmond frowned in concern.  
“IT. Why? Is something wrong?”  
With a soft chuckle, Giles shook his head.  
“Not especially. It’s just that, uh, I’m in Advertising.”  
He brought his gaze up slowly to meet Richmond’s, who laughed. The sounds were strange and unfamiliar in his mouth, and he realised with a jolt that this was possibly the longest conversation he’d ever had with a colleague. Even if that colleague did technically work for a department that no longer existed. Giles laughed too, looking away for a moment before turning back to Richmond, who was smiling carefully.  
“I thought I had it bad,” he joked. “At least I’ve got colleagues.”  
Giles grinned, then looked around and frowned slightly.  
“If you’ve got other people here, why aren’t you with them at the theatre?”  
Richmond looked away, down at the scuff marks on the floor from where Roy had been playing Guitar Wizard 12.  
“Oh. They don’t like me. I mean alright, fair enough, they’re busy people, but they just don’t like me.”  
Giles shuffled slightly closer and put a hand on his arm. Richmond started at the contact, jerking away for a split second in surprise before settling down. As he stared at the unfamiliar hand against his sleeve he became aware that Giles was staring at him and looked back up.  
“How could they dislike you?” he asked, then without warning he reached out and lightly caressed Richmond’s jaw, tracing the line of ink. Something swirled low in Richmond’s stomach and he hoped his pale makeup was enough to hide the blush in his cheeks.  
“An artist, I presume?” continued Giles, seemingly oblivious. “Can I ask, do you paint? Or write, like me?”  
“Mostly drawings, actually,” said Richmond, trying to hide his sigh when Giles let his hand fall. The taller man was smiling warmly, apparently completely unaware of the confusion he’d left Richmond feeling.  
“Of course. I should have guessed from the ink. Is that why you don’t get on with the others? Because they don’t respect your work?”  
“I think they just find me a bit creepy,” he replied honestly. A thought struck him, and he tilted his head slightly to look at Giles. “Don’t you?”  
Giles chuckled.  
“I’ve been staring at that door for the best part of the last several years. Trust me, it’s difficult to be creepier than that.”  
Richmond smiled, suddenly feeling shy.  
“Do you- you said you write things?”  
“Yes, I do.”  
Giles smiled ruefully.  
“Of course, nobody’s publishing them, but I suppose it’s just to do with the economy right now. The industry should pick up soon enough.”  
There was a pause, and for a moment it looked like he was going to say something else, but then he stiffened in alarm. Richmond turned to look at the door, listening intently.  
Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.  
“Someone’s coming,” muttered Giles, and before Richmond had a chance to protest that it was probably just Moss he was gone, closing the green door carefully behind him. Richmond stared morosely after him.  
“Oh, hello Richmond,” muttered Moss from the doorway.  
“Hi, Moss. Did you enjoy the theatre?” he asked, trying to keep the sadness from his voice before realising that his colleague probably couldn’t tell. Moss nodded.  
“Yep, it was- it was good,” he mumbled, picking up his keys from a hook by his desk and almost running to the door. He paused on his way out.  
“Were you talking to someone?”  
Richmond glanced back at the green door and shook his head.  
“No. Listen, I’m glad you enjoyed-”  
He looked back up at the doorway, but Moss had vanished. With a reluctant sigh Richmond retreated back into his own room, the memory of Giles’ hand on his cheek lingering in the back of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the show or any of the characters etc mentioned here except from Giles. Please give me a bit of feedback if you've got a minute, I'll love you forever.


End file.
